


Tartarus

by ackermom



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Post-Canon, this is part good place - part stranger things - part a recurring nightmare that i have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-26 08:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17742224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: They fall asleep, tangled in arms and legs, the moon singing high over the white cliffs, and Reiner wonders how this could be anything but heaven.





	Tartarus

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this last year, hated it, never rewrote it. but i'm really tired of it sitting on my desktop in a .txt file, so i made some revisions and now it's finally, finally, finally finished. please let me know if there are other tags i should add.

The world spins in white streaks of light. He sees the sun, a blinding blaze overhead, and he squints. Stars pound against his skull. But the light is warm on his skin and he breathes slowly, softly, as the world comes into focus. He feels the grass beneath him. Wind blows in rifling tufts of air, brushing across his face, and he can taste the sea. His fingernails grasp at sandy soil. Above him, seagulls call.

His vision sways in great lulls of colored lights as he pulls himself onto his elbows, breathless, thoughtless. The world rocks with his movements, and for a moment there is nothing but an endless white dizziness.

Then the land returns to view, and he hears something.

He hears footsteps in the sandy grass: something climbing towards him, echoed by a deep tattoo humming from inside his head. The world is unsteady and he can barely see beyond the sunlight; he grips at the ground, his breath caught in his lungs.

Something dark appears on his horizon. A figure waves in the air like a shadow, shifting in and out of form as it approaches. It looms over where he lies on the ground. Another step forward, and the shape becomes clearer. The sun shines in bright beams across its face, and when it sinks to the grass before him, he feels his blood rush.

"Where am I?" he asks. 

Sound echoes strangely on the salted air, humming like the rhythm of a dream. The stranger smiles.

"You are home," he says. 

The white light fades. When the stranger reaches out for him, his touch burns like holy fire, and when he comes to his knees in the grass, he sees that it is no stranger at all. Bertholdt's eyes shine like gems in the sunlight, and the world glows. 

 _I missed you_ , is all that crosses Reiner's mind, and he thinks it so terribly that the words strike unbearable pain through his body. All he can muster is a rush of tears. His heart cries, and he cannot help himself. Wells of water spill from his eyes, and he falls into Bertholdt's outstretched arms, his shoulders shaking. Bertholdt wraps around him. The bass line echo of his soaring heartbeat hums in Reiner's ears, steady like a drum, and he feels warm inside.

"You're home," Bertholdt says in his ear. 

He whispers. His voice sings through Reiner like the lullaby of a seashell. He is a never-ending thought who presses Reiner against his shoulder and holds him close. When he kisses Reiner's forehead, his lips are as warm as the sun.

"You're here with me," Bertholdt says. "You're home now."

Reiner does not let go of Bertholdt's hands when he pulls away. He presses their lifelines together and revels in the way Bertholdt feels beneath his fingers: here, together, now. Bertholdt looks at him, and Reiner's heart soars.

"Where are we?" Reiner asks.

Bertholdt smiles. "We're safe."

Something stirs in Reiner. "The last thing I remember is..."

"You don't have to think about that anymore," Bertholdt says. "You're home now."

Reiner beams. "I missed you."

Bertholdt squeezes his hands. "Let's go home."

The sun swells in the sky like a heartbeat.

"Let's go home," Reiner echoes.

Bertholdt takes him home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Home is a meadow of white wildflowers that dance in the ocean breezes on the cliffs of their island. It is sheer walls of silver rock that stand proud above a sky-blue sea and beneath a sea-blue sky. It is a high wind that rushes through the grass in great, whistling breaths and blows Bertholdt's hair back against his brow. It is standing on top of the world and holding Bertholdt's hand in his. 

Home is the grey stone cottage at the end of the meadow, nestled in the thicket of the green mountain plateau, the hills beyond rolling down into the valley where the sea laps at the land. It is the scent of fresh linens on the breeze, the waft of dark coffee through the window, and the way Reiner's heart sings when he steps inside for the first time, home in his grasp at last. It is the crawling ivy that blooms across the thatched cottage roof and the thick smoke clouds that puff from the chimney into the great sky and beyond.

Home is watching Bertholdt roll dough beneath his nimble fingers and kissing sugar from his lips. It is fresh salads and tender pies, smiles across the dinner table, and flowery tea through the quiet evening. It is watching the ocean waves from the garden, their hands intertwined in the grass. It is resting his head on Bertholdt's shoulder and humming in time with his heartbeat. It is the sunset that arrives at the perfect moment, when purple shadows are slumbering across the land, and it is the warmth of woven blankets deep in the night, when there is nothing to be done but rest. It is Bertholdt kissing his forehead when they go to bed and Bertholdt lying in his arms when they fall asleep.

Home is the perfect happiness unspoken between them, wishing they'd had more time together in life, waiting to spend eternity together in death.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is in that wishing, that waiting, that wistful silence when Reiner wakes in the wee night with Bertholdt's arms wrapped sweetly around his waist, that Reiner realizes everything is wrong. It is in that peace and silence that Reiner's heart drums with recognition.

This is not his home.

He watches the moon dance across the ocean waves, standing at the open window with his feet bare against the kitchen hearth. A stiff breeze knocks across the cliffs and sweeps into the cottage, but Reiner doesn't feel the chill. He drinks hot tea, out of habit, out of life, one cup, then another, and another, until the sunrise breaks over the horizon and songbirds sing from the slopes of the mountains, until the morning comes after a tireless night and Reiner is standing wide-eyed at the kitchen window. 

Bertholdt kisses his cheek. His lips are so, so warm.

"Where are we?" Reiner asks when Bertholdt pours the coffee.

The brew is thick and black, and Bertholdt hands him a steaming mug.

"We're home," he says.

"What does that mean, Bert?" Reiner asks. They sit at the kitchen table, and when the sea breeze blows through the cottage, it rings the chimes in the window. "What is this place?"

Bertholdt holds his mug. "Reiner, we're safe here."

"I think I know what that means," Reiner says. "I know what that means, Bert, and I don't think I should be here."

Bertholdt stirs a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, then offers it to Reiner.

"No," Reiner says. "Bertholdt, I shouldn't be here."

Bertholdt blows on his coffee.

"I don't belong here," Reiner says. His heart trembles in his chest; he glances down, searching, and he finds a murky reflection in his coffee. He swallows and pushes the mug aside. "Look at this place, Bert- the sunshine and the flowers and the coffee,  _real_ coffee,  _good_ coffee. It's too good, Bertholdt."

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt says before taking a sip of his coffee. "Don't say that."

"Look at this place. And- look at us, Bertholdt. Look at  _me_."

"I am looking at you," Bertholdt says.

"You're not seeing me," Reiner exclaims.

Bertholdt stares at Reiner from across the table, the mug clutched between his hands. He sets it down carefully, and when he looks up again, he speaks with a voice like glass.

"You don't want to be here," he says.

Reiner breathes. "I do."

"You don't want to be here with me."

"I didn't say that," Reiner says, clutching at the table. "Of course, I want to be here with you."

"That's not what you said."

"I didn't mean it," Reiner says. "Of course, I want to be here."

Bertholdt sets his hands around his mug. He turns his face to the window and says nothing else.

"Don't be upset," Reiner says, standing from his chair. It scrapes against the kitchen floor, and he reaches across the table, his heart thundering, to grab Bertholdt's hand. "Please don't be upset. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You did upset me."

"I'm sorry, Bertholdt," Reiner says, his voice low. "But you know I don't belong here." 

"Well," Bertholdt says, turning back to him with bright eyes, "what do I know?" 

There is a glass of cream on the table that Bertholdt pushes towards him, but Reiner takes his coffee black. For a moment, the coffee bites him: how bitter. Then it tastes like nothing, so he finishes it while it's hot. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bertholdt washes the mugs. 

"Let's take a walk," he says. 

He grabs his coat from a stand by the door and hands another jacket to Reiner. They walk down the white cliffs, side by side in silence, the ocean breeze rushing over their faces. The trail is familiar beneath Reiner's feet, and the sun shine down on them, warm, at home. Bertholdt's pace meanders; he reaches out for Reiner, linking their arms together.

Reiner can taste the acrid coffee on his tongue when Bertholdt kisses him. Soon, he forgets.

The path winds into the green mountain range that grows behind the cottage. They traipse down a forest trail towards the valley of the island, where a red-roofed village lies in slumber. The slopes of the mountains are padded with thick, humming woods, and as they walk further, weaving zigzag through the trees, they disappear beneath the canopy. The air bites. At the foot of the slops, Reiner sees his breaths. He tucks his hands into his jacket pocket, but he does not feel cold and Bertholdt does not seem to notice. He carries on, his arm tied to Reiner's, and Reiner follows him. 

A great shadow hangs over the sky when they emerge from the tree cover. Reiner looks up, but it is only the moon, rising as the sun fades over the cliffs. With each step, the sky grows darker. The valley becomes midnight. They cross the threshold of the village, the crooked cobblestones familiar underfoot, and Bertholdt stops them at the gates. 

"Look," he says, pointing. 

From afar, the village was a sleepy hamlet, nestled in the valley's cradle. Now, here, the town center is strung with lights that glitter like fireflies against the night. The square bursts with color, overflowing with decorated booths, spiraling silver ribbons, and tables topped with sweets, pastries, and candles whose golden flames dance in the wind. The booths fill the square as a great winter market, and in the center stands a tall wooden pole, draped with woven clothes and pale winter flowers. The ribbons canopy the marketplace and flutter in the breeze.

"It's not wintertime," Reiner says. He stands in the shadow of the solstice pole, and it's just as he remembers. 

"Yes, it is," Bertholdt says. "Look."

This time, he points up. 

Reiner turns his face to the sky and finds a gentle snowfall drifting down. Snowflakes land on his cheeks, melting on his skin, and when he turns back to the town, blinking into the shimmering lantern light, Bertholdt is there, holding two steaming mugs. He hands one to Reiner.

"Isn't it just like you remember?" he asks, smiling. 

Reiner takes the mug. "It is."

"Let's go inside," Bertholdt says. 

"We were never allowed inside," Reiner says.

Bertholdt smiles. "We're safe here. Come on."

They traipse through the marketplace, kicking up clouds of snow. The mulled wine is rich; it sits on Reiner's tongue, warm and sweet, long after his mug is empty. Bertholdt takes him by the hand and they walk, their shoulders knocking. 

They trail from booth to booth, shop to shop, admiring every tender ornament, every crafted wooden figurine, every sweet delicacy. There are cream cakes and meat pies and candied fruits, the kind coated in white sugar that sticks to Reiner's lips and glistens in the starlight. Winter carols echo across the square, singing a long-forgotten melody of warmth in the darkness, and when Bertholdt takes his hands, pulling him close, Reiner feels like dancing.

They are miserable dancers, the pair of them. 

But their bodies are warm as they sway together beneath the ribbons of the solstice pole. The string lights hum around them in notes of gold, and the snowflakes breathe at their feet. When Reiner puts an arm around Bertholdt's waist and spins him, Bertholdt laughs. It is a laugh Reiner has not heard in such a long time, a sound he thought he might never hear again. It fills him with such happiness that he puts a hand on Bertholdt's cheek and kisses him in the center of town, and he does not care when he feels himself blush.

Bertholdt leads him around the marketplace again, holding his hand all the way. They stop before an ornamental wooden booth and Bertholdt reaches behind the curtain. When he turns around, there is a silver plate in his hands. Sitting on top, a chocolate cake with cream and cherries. 

"Look," Bertholdt says." Isn't it just like you remember?"

"It looks just like the one from that shop," Reiner says. He gingerly accepts the plate that is pushed into his hands, then the fork. "Where'd you get this?"

"We're home," Bertholdt says. "It's just like home, isn't it?"

Reiner's fork hesitates. 

"Try it," Bertholdt says.

He does.

"Isn't it exactly how you thought it would be?" Bertholdt asks.

"It's good," Reiner says when he swallows. "It's exactly how I thought it would be." 

Bertholdt takes the plate and fork. When he turns to put them back, Reiner realizes how quiet the night is. He glances around. The marketplace is bustling, but not with life. There are lights and ribbons and games and sweets, but the town square is empty. Their footprints dust the snow, but only theirs. He thought he heard caroling. In the twilight, Reiner suddenly feels very cold.

"There's no one else here," he says when he turns back, his breath on the wind.

Bertholdt looks at him. "No."

"It's not really a solstice festival, then," Reiner says. "Isn't the crowd half the fun?"

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt says.

He takes Reiner's arm. "Let's watch the stars."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is heaven, isn't it? Reiner does not know.

The mountaintop is quiet. From the peak, they can see the whole island. Reiner sees the red-roofed village, silent again in the basin of the valley. He sees their cottage on the other side of the mountains, the chimney puffing white smoke into the night. He sees across the meadow, across the tall cliffs, and then on, across the water, to the horizon.

They lie in the grass and watch the stars until they fall asleep, the names of constellations on their tongues.

They wake to the sunrise, dew in their hair. Reiner watches Bertholdt yawning, stretching, the way he always does in the morning. When they return to the cottage, Bertholdt makes coffee. Reiner drinks a cup, but he feels so thirsty. He adds cream, and all he can taste is cherries. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Let's take a walk," Bertholdt says. 

They walk beneath a glimmering white sky, slipping quietly into the forest on the slopes of the mountains. They trek the same trail to the mountaintop, though it seems much steeper in the daylight. Ferns brush against their calves, the sunlight peeking through the canopy, and Reiner does not feel tired, no matter how high they climb.

They trail through the brush, weaving between trees, rustling through the leaves, climbing higher, higher. They find wildflowers growing in a patch of sunlight, and Bertholdt picks them tenderly like they are freshly laid eggs. He ties their stems together in expert fashion and places the crown on Reiner's head.

"I didn't know you could do that," Reiner says, one hand gingerly touching the crown. "Where'd you learn to do that?" 

Bertholdt smiles.

"You must have picked it up somewhere," Reiner says.

"Yes," Bertholdt says. "I must have picked it up somewhere."

Reiner looks at him. "I wonder where."

Bertholdt looks back. "Isn't this just like you remember?"

They sit in the sunlight, leaning back against a great tree, their legs stretched out into the grass. Reiner kisses him. His fingers press against Bertholdt's warm skin. Bertholdt kisses him too, and they fall back into the grass like a pillow, sprinkles of sunlight sparkling across their faces.

Reiner does not remember this. They spent so many days in the forest, when they were young, when they were together. It was on another island, far away, where he first kissed Bertholdt, and he thinks that it must have been something like this. It must have been a quiet stolen moment behind the trees, knee-deep in the grass, with Bertholdt's fingers trailing down his collarbone and Bertholdt's lips on his, finally.

He remembers wanting it so badly, to have Bertholdt's hand in his grasp. He remembers reaching for it, finally, and the way their callouses felt together, something secret and terrible and unspoken. He remembered that for years, wondering what he did wrong.

"Yes," Reiner says, the sunlight falling over his face. "It's just like I remember."

Bertholdt adjusts the flower crown on his head, and they are off again, kids again, kings of the forest, hands bound together. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reiner wears the flower crown until they are back into the cottage. Bertholdt kisses him, pressed against the bedroom door, and Reiner hangs his crown on the coat rack. Bertholdt laughs. He keeps laughing, even when Reiner kisses him back, even when Reiner takes him by the waist and dances him into the bedroom.

They are teenagers again, as if they ever were not. Were they not?

Reiner doesn't remember.

All he remembers is the first time he loved Bertholdt, the first they were tipsy behind the barracks, touching each other like they had never been touched before. They never had, because they were children of the devil and they had never felt the kind of love that rushed through their veins when they kissed.

Reiner remembers how different Bertholdt felt under his fingers. He remembers the taste of wine on Bertholdt's lips and the way he has always tasted like wine since that night. He remembers the way he kissed Bertholdt's stomach, his skin as raw as flesh, as tender as fresh snow. He will never forget the way Bertholdt cried his name when he came in Reiner's hand.

That is how he feels tonight. Young. Euphoric. High on the way Bertholdt bites his lip when they kiss, the way Bertholdt leaves purple touches on his collarbone, the way Bertholdt breathes down the tender skin of his breast.

Candlelight dances across the walls like ghosts in the wind as Reiner lies on the bed, Bertholdt following him, leaning over him, loving him. Fingers slip over buttons and through belt loops. Reiner slips Bertholdt's thin shirt from his lean shoulders, kicks everything to the floor, until they are bare in the naked candlelight. Exposed and raw, Reiner reaches for Bertholdt. Their skins press together like fire. Reiner kisses him again, his lips parting- oh- when Bertholdt's fingers close around his cock.

Bertholdt touches him with such fine tenderness, kissing the corner of Reiner's lips while he strokes the head of his cock. His hands are warm. He is warm, the muscles in his shoulders easing gently up and down when he finally pushes into Reiner. 

Reiner feels those muscles stretch taut beneath his clutching fingers when Bertholdt bends to kiss him, fervently, feverishly. When they make love, their bodies glisten with sweat in the low, golden light, and Reiner begins to believe that he is meant to be here after all.

This is where he belongs, isn't it? Between Bertholdt's arms, his fingers drawing familiar trails along Bertholdt's thighs while Bertholdt makes him forget. Here, in heaven?

Reiner thinks about heaven when he comes, and the way Bertholdt kisses the breath from his lips is all the proof he needs that this is real.

They fall asleep, tangled in arms and legs, the moon singing high over the white cliffs, and Reiner wonders how this could be anything but heaven. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Reiner wakes in the morning, he is parched. 

A fresh cup of coffee waits for him on the kitchen table. Bertholdt stands quietly at the window, staring across the meadow, across the tall cliffs. Reiner wants to cross the room in great strides and wrap himself around Bertholdt, hug him close; but he is so thirsty and so tired. Sleep weighs heavily on his shoulders. 

He takes the coffee and stares into his reflection. He adds cream so that he does not have to see it again. He thinks about drinking the whole cup, but the first sip is too weak and he pushes it away instead.

"Let's take a walk," Bertholdt says. The sun shines through the kitchen window, throwing glimmering light across the floor. "Let's go to the beach.

Reiner smiles. "Let's go to the beach."

On their way out the door, Reiner sees the flower crown hanging on the coat rack. It has wilted overnight. He picks it up, quietly, and throws it off the cliffs. 

They lollygag at the beach. Bertholdt's starry skin is irresistible, and Reiner cradles him against the cliffside, pressing their lips together in a passionate, giggling dance. Reiner kisses him up and down, leaving tiny blushing marks down his chest and a few on the insides of his thighs, until Bertholdt is laughing too hard and they tumble into the sand. The sun rises as the morning fades; it beams down in fiery trails of light.

Their skin is hot, too hot, too hot to even touch, and Bertholdt races Reiner to the water. They are kids again, teenagers; were they not?

The water is ice on Reiner's skin. He yelps when he charges into the waves. He leaps backwards and lands on the hot sand. The freezing tide laps at his toes. Bertholdt does not notice, or maybe he does not mind. He wades deeper into the water, up to his waist, his shoulders, until he turns and beckons for Reiner to join him. When Reiner does not, Bertholdt wades back to shore.

"Isn't it just like you remember?" he asks.

No, Reiner thinks, shivering, because they have never been to the beach, never like this, never without gear strapped to their backs and fear rampant in their hearts. The last beach he remembers is the grey city shore as foghorns bellowed useless warnings, as ships pulled ashore and boots splashed down into the shallows. The dead beach, the soldiers called it. It wasn't too long before he too was-

"I don't remember," Reiner says. "Bert, the water's freezing."

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt says, turning back to the waves.

Reiner tries again. He loses feeling in his toes, then stumbles back to dry land and wraps himself in a towel.

The sun moves on, casting shadows across the land where they hide from the heat. They slide into the shade of the cliffs, giggly fingers poking at last night's love bites. Bertholdt unpacks their lunch and they sit in the still heat of the mid-afternoon, watching the wispy clouds drift by. 

The ocean throws waves like birds, then pulls them crashing back down until they hit the surface and explode with the tide. The water pulls back and forth, swaying, rocking, and the longer Reiner watches the waves, the colder he becomes, until he can see his breath in the sunlight.

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt says when Reiner tries to explain.

"Something's wrong with the ocean."

"Nothing's wrong," Bertholdt says.

They are couched on a blanket, sand between their toes. Reiner sits with a towel hugged around his shoulders, squinting out from beneath the shadows, and Bertholdt lies beside him, eating strawberries. His skin glows as the strawberry juice drips down his chin. He hands one to Reiner, who finds that it is not as sweet as he imagined.

"There's nothing wrong with the ocean," Bertholdt says.

"Maybe not," Reiner says. "Maybe it's me."

A moment passes before Bertholdt finishes the thought.

"Maybe you should stay away from the water," Bertholdt says. "Maybe you should try the land." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reiner sleeps restlessly, Bertholdt's fingers brushing carefully over the back of his neck. When he wakes in the morning, the night seems much too short. He thinks of lying in bed forever, warm beneath the blankets, and he begs Bertholdt to stay with him. But the day is unrelenting. Light bursts in through the window, and Bertholdt slips out of bed without saying a word. He leaves Reiner alone, curled up under the covers, losing himself.

He remembers mornings like these. The reveille called at first light, when the sun had barely broken over the walls, and at once, the barracks came alive with groaning, aching cadets. The wake-up call roused Bertholdt, who was glad to be given any sleep at all, glad to be woken with a horn and not a rifle.

Reiner woke before dawn, his thoughts gnawing at him. He remembers late nights and early mornings lying in his bunk, the ceiling spinning over his head as his mind swam, his name forgotten somewhere in the night.

There were days when nothing was wrong. Some days, he was just a boy.

But those were not all days.

He lies beneath the sheets, numb, breathless, when Bertholdt appears at the foot of the bed.

"Let's take a walk," he says. His coat is draped over his arm.

"I'm so tired," Reiner says. "I'm so tired today."

Bertholdt watches him for a while, unwavering. Then the chimes in the kitchen window sing, and Bertholdt turns to leave.

"Don't be like that," he says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reiner takes on the vegetable garden. He thinks he does not have a green thumb, but the plants grow anyways, weaving up the side of the cottage wall and stretching for the sunlight. 

Over time, he learns. He plants stakes and wraps vines and waters leaves. It is quiet work, if menial, and he becomes familiar with the soil beneath his boots, the dirt between his fingers, the tender vines against his skin. He is glad to have something to do. He spends mornings in the gardens, raking and sowing beneath the white sunlight. He hums while he tends the tomatoes, blooming on a stake beneath the kitchen window.

Sometimes he will look up and find Bertholdt leaning on the windowsill, watching him.

"Are you happy?" Bertholdt will ask, smiling.

Reiner will smile back. "Yes," he will say, and there will be no more words, because what else will there be to say?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On golden afternoons, they follow sea breezes to the meadow on the clifftops where the wildflowers grow. They sprawl through the grass, their footsteps falling in love, and when they come to a thicket as soft as clouds, Reiner lies down next to Bertholdt, warm again beneath the sunlight.

He plucks a patch of violet flowers.

"These would look good in your hair," he says. "Make yourself a crown."

Bertholdt looks at him. "I don't know how to do that."

The world is soft beneath his body, and Reiner wonders if he is falling asleep. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun slumbers behind cascades of silver clouds, and they retreat to the cottage to wrap themselves in woven blankets, to murmur to each other over cups of hot tea. Reiner unravels himself in the afternoon and slips outside, where he finds a vine of ripe tomatoes growing, perfectly red and juicy. He bends to touch them and they come off in his hands, perfectly round.

"Look," he says to Bertholdt, murmuring. He glances to the kitchen window, but Bertholdt is not there.

In the evening, they slice tomatoes for dinner. Reiner cuts into something hard and black, and his hands recoil at the rotten touch. Bertholdt tosses it aside. When morning comes, Reiner goes out to examine the soil. He crouches beneath the kitchen window and digs his hands into the dirt. He finds nothing. But soil is the blood of the earth, and when Reiner takes his hands out of the ground, the lines of his palms etched with dirt, all he sees is 

blood.

"It's me," Reiner breathes, staring at his hands. Blood seeps from his palms. He shakes.

"It's been me all along, Bertholdt, I told you that I didn't belong here, it won't stop, get it off me-"

Blood spills down his wrists. It drips from his fingernails, from his heart lines, head lines, and it keeps coming. It keeps coming. He paws at his shirt to stem the flow, but it keeps coming. It is red like tomatoes, like strawberries, like cherries. It soaks down his arms, his legs, coming great floods until he is wearing nothing but blood. Blood swallows into the patch of soil where he kneels, the patch that melts into the earth, sinking into a pool of blood. 

"Get it off me!"

It keeps coming.

"Reiner," Bertholdt says when he appears. "Reiner. Reiner."

"Don't touch me," Reiner cries. "This is your blood too."

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt says, stepping forward. He kneels in the blood and reaches for Reiner. "We're safe here."

The blood soaks through, and Reiner watches as it seeps from Bertholdt's eyes, from the gaping wound in Bertholdt's chest, sucking them down, down, into the soil to swallow them whole.

Then Bertholdt grabs his wrists, and the blood is gone.

Bertholdt stares at him. "There's nothing wrong with the tomatoes."

Reiner stares back. "This isn't about the tomatoes."

He pulls back, but Bertholdt does not let him go.

"It's this place," Reiner says. "Look what I've done to it."

"But Reiner," Bertholdt says. His grip tightens. "I was a soldier too."

A soldier, Reiner thinks. A soldier, a soldier, a soldier.

"You were never a soldier," Reiner says. He jerks his arms back. "Let me go."

"Isn't it just like you remember?" Bertholdt asks. His grip tightens around Reiner's wrists like jaws.

"You were so much better at pretending," Bertholdt says. "But I was there too. I was there when we killed all those people. I was there when you couldn't do your duty. Look where it got me, Reiner. Look where you got me!"

"Stop it!" Reiner yells.

"You killed me," Bertholdt hisses. "You killed me, you coward!"

"Let me go!" Reiner cries.

He breaks free and falls back into the dirt. When he looks up, trembling, Bertholdt is gone. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He scrubs his skin until it aches, his legs shaking in the tepid bathwater. He scrubs the dirt from his arms and douses the tub with a sweet soap until he can pretend it is enough to overpower the raw scent. Then he sits, shaken and alone, staring into the white water, mind and body numb.

The world is dark when Reiner drains the tub. He wraps himself in a thin robe and pads on bare feet to the quiet kitchen. A fresh pot of tea sits on the counter. He is so thirsty, but he does not drink. He stands at the kitchen window, staring across the meadows, across the clifftops, like he did on his first night in this place, and he tries to feel the salty breeze against his face. He waits to hear the wind chimes whistle in the darkness, but the night is quiet. He stands, breathing, making sure that he is still breathing, wondering if he is really breathing.

When he goes to bed, the moon is hollow in the mournful, purple sky. He lies awake next to Bertholdt, who rolls over, asleep, and rests an arm across Reiner's throat.

The sky is grey the next morning. Bertholdt leaves the coffee out for Reiner. They do not speak of the garden.

Soon, the plants die. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning is grey, and the next, and the next. Reiner wakes to a meadow of mist so thick that he might walk off the cliffs and not know it. He stays inside, away from the land, the air, the sea. He wears a woven blanket around his shoulders and leans on Bertholdt.

They drink black tea, white tea, black coffee. The mist grows thicker.

Reiner trails his fingers along the bound books on the shelf in the corner, hardly able to read their titles between the dust. He opens a book of poetry and finds violet wildflowers pressed between the pages. Bertholdt reads to him as the mist fills their windows. He sits at the end of the couch, Reiner's head in his lap, and he reads, his voice and tender, the way a poet's voice should be. He turns the pages with care and tucks the blanket tighter over Reiner's shoulders. 

In the quiet, Reiner thinks that this is the way it should be: together, like this. But there is something lingering in the mist. Reiner wonders if it is coming for him. 

Bertholdt carries on. He does not see the mist or feel the chill in the air. Sometimes, he does not see Reiner either. Reiner kisses him before bed, and Bertholdt's lips are cold. Reiner's blood rushes as he pulls back, and Bertholdt lets him. When he wakes in the middle of the night, a spiraling fear pulsing through his body, he presses his forehead between Bertholdt's shoulder blades and listens for a heartbeat.

In the morning, the grey sunrise lulls Reiner from his sleep. Bertholdt is in the kitchen, his eyes pale, his lips moving softly as he echoes old lines of poetry. The pressed flowers are shriveled on the table. He sweeps them aside to make coffee, and he does not pour a cup for Reiner.

The nights get deeper, darker. Reiner spreads blankets across their bed to ward off the chill of the mist. But Bertholdt rolls over to one side, sighing, and he lies just out of reach. He is ahead of Reiner, and it seems that nothing can make him turn back. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reiner wakes in the night with his wrists pinned to the bed. 

In the darkness, all he can see are Bertholdt's glowing eyes. When Bertholdt speaks, his voice echoes from inside Reiner's head.

"Isn't it just like you remember?" Bertholdt whispers. His fingernails dig into Reiner's skin.

Reiner struggles, but the bed is firm beneath his weight. 

"Get off," he hisses. His gaze moves wildly in the dark as silver eyes leer over him.

"Don't you remember?" Bertholdt asks.

His breath is hot on Reiner's skin, pulsing up and down. He draws his tongue up Reiner's veins. When his lips press against Reiner's jaw, they feel like teeth.

"You didn't watch," Bertholdt says in the darkness. "But you can imagine it, can't you?"

He bites Reiner with raw teeth. They scrape along his jaw, tearing through skin that bursts with blood. They are so sharp that for a moment, Reiner can barely feel it.

Then Bertholdt bites him again, teeth burying into flesh, and Reiner screams. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the daylight, Reiner stumbles to the bathroom.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet. His body shakes in the stiff air. He traces two trembling hands along his clean-shaven jaw and he feels nothing. There are no teeth. No blood.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He does not know who stares back at him. He does not know if anyone even does. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reiner remembers waking in this place: the sunshine on his face and Bertholdt's arm around his shoulders. He remembers their first dinner at the house and the way the sunset looked that night. He remembers kissing Bertholdt Bertholdt in the snow. He remembers falling in love again, under twilight, under sunrise, between sheets and in the sand. He remembers cups of coffee, pots of tea, and the way he cried when he heard Bertholdt's voice for the first time in a long time.

When Reiner retreats to the meadow on the hilltop, to the place where this world was born, to remember the way the flowers danced beneath the wind, there is nothing left but dead grass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bertholdt finds him there: a forlorn figure standing on the bleak cliffs, watching the sea blow. Reiner turns around, arms wrapped around his body, his gaze lost. The salty wind blows against his face, and he stares at Bertholdt, who only stares back.

"Where are we?" Reiner asks. "You told me that this is home. What does that mean?"

Bertholdt says nothing.

"I thought I had gone to heaven," Reiner says. "I woke up and I thought I was with you again. But I knew that couldn't be true. I wouldn't be there. I didn't deserve it. A person like me deserves nothing. I didn't do anything to deserve you, Bertholdt."

In death, Bertholdt is quiet-eyed. He says nothing, only listens. Reiner wishes he could see life in those eyes again.

"But to be here with you," Reiner says. "To be at yours arms' length and not touch you, not sleep, not dream, and never wake up from this nightmare..."

He stares at Bertholdt. "Bertholdt, just tell me."

"Reiner," Bertholdt says. He speaks softly, but not like a poet. "You already know."

"I don't know," Reiner exclaims. "I don't know what you mean."

"Look at me, Reiner."

"I am looking at you," Reiner says.

"You're not seeing me," Bertholdt says. 

And Reiner sees now, through the mist, that this is not his Bertholdt. 

This is not the Bertholdt he met on the sunny cliffs, or the Bertholdt who danced with him beneath the snow. This is not the Bertholdt he knows. His skin looks so cold. He does not remember when it happened, but he thinks- somewhere between cherries, strawberries, tomatoes- that he should have known. His throat burns with thirst and he thinks, perhaps, that he already did. 

He thought he did not deserve this place with wildflowers. He sees now that there were no wildflowers. 

He turns back to the cliffs.

"Don't be like that," Bertholdt calls.

Something stirs in Reiner.

"The last thing I remember," he says, and this time Bertholdt does not stop him from remembering the blades across his throat, his back, his neck, carving into his skin, paper-thin, then deep, like the crack of a whip. 

Reiner's hands shake. He remembers the gun he once held in his mouth and he wonders if it would have hurt less than this. He cannot breathe. His throat burns with thirst, starvation, 

blood. 

He looks down the and the world is swimming. He sees a glint of metal. He sees the end of a sword in his chest, dripping with blood. He sees thick red pools, and he cannot breathe.

The hilt of the blade buries deeper into his back. Blood creeps beneath his fingernails as he struggles to find the wound with shaking hands, to stem the flow, but the blood keeps coming, seeping from his chest, dripping to the ground in rivers. It soaks into the soil. It spills from the cliffs and dives into the rocky waves below.

"Bertholdt," Reiner gasps. "Please." 

He cries. The blood keeps coming. His vision spins and he loses his fingers. Then his hands are gone, just aching bleeding stumps, and his wounds are spilling into the ground, endlessly, ceaselessly, pouring into the earth, being eaten alive. Blood spills from his eyes, and when he is on his knees, the blood keeps coming. 

"Bertholdt," he cries. "I can't breathe."

"Try again," Bertholdt says. 

Reiner spits blood from his lips, gasping for air. He looks down, at the deep red pool beneath his body, at the silver blade shining in his chest. He turns his face to the ground and there is a sword to the back of his neck, the blade pressing into his skin. 

"Try again," Bertholdt echoes.

Reiner sees him: his pale lips, the sharp angle of his jaw, and the darkness clouding his eyes, the reflection of this nightmare. Reiner sees the dead beach in those eyes: thundering clouds and grey sands, running with his blood. He sees darkness and his lips tremble, because he has lost Bertholdt again. 

"Please," Reiner says. "Let me go."

Bertholdt presses down on the blade. "I can't do that, Reiner."

There is something else in those eyes. Reiner sees green, like sea glass. And he knows, then-

The sword slices at his neck, hacking against his bare skin, muscle, bone, once, twice, again and again and again and again until his veins bursts and he cries blood and he is dead, twice, his body cold and numb, his face buried in the dirt. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He squints into the sunlight. It is so bright after so long in the dark, and he holds a hand over his eyes to see. The world is white, blinding, but there are wildflowers brushing against his ankles, a salty breeze rushing through the meadow grasses around him. He sits up, breathing hard. 

He does not have time to think before he hears frantic footsteps rustling in the grass, and when Reiner looks up, blinking into the horizon, there is Bertholdt again, racing towards him, diving to his knees, careening into Reiner's arms. He knocks the breath from Reiner's lungs. They tumble backwards, sprawling into the wildflowers. Bertholdt lands beside him, laughing, and as Reiner catches his breath, Bertholdt sits up, leans over, and kisses him.

He is warm against Reiner's skin, clutching his jaw, his shoulders, every piece of him until Reiner is clutching him back, fingers trailing through Bertholdt's hair. Bertholdt tastes like wine, like sunshine, like life.

When they break, Bertholdt pulls Reiner to his knees.

"You're really here," Bertholdt says. 

His cheek is smeared with dirt from his crash-landing in the flowers. Reiner reaches out and brushes the dirt away with his thumb as a gentle smile blooms across his face. 

"I'm here," he says.

Reiner takes Bertholdt in his arms. This time, he does not let go. 


End file.
